


Sifting Through the Dust

by VSSAKJ



Series: Dust Off the Peak [3]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: F/F, Low Chaos (Dishonored), Non-Binary Wyman (Dishonored), Post-Dishonored 2 (Video Game)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-16 02:06:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11244105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VSSAKJ/pseuds/VSSAKJ
Summary: The way they parted never sat well with Emily Kaldwin.So, being Empress, she organises a tour through the length and breadth of her empire, so she can seek out the woman once known as Meagan Foster. There are conversations they could have had—should have had—and Emily think she’ll sleep better once they’ve been spoken aloud.The answers she gets aren't the ones she expected.





	Sifting Through the Dust

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a tremendous work for me to get through and I'm really happy with where it's ended up. Huge thanks to the artists who joined me, J at [thedeadgayaesthetic](http://thedeadgayaesthetic.tumblr.com/) and Mittie at [mittiepaul](http://mittiepaul.tumblr.com/). Further thanks to the lovely Luci at [carvedwhalebones-events](http://carvedwhalebones-events.tumblr.com/), who could probably herd cats.

_I am going to find Meagan Foster._

Emily laid the pen down next to her journal and re-read the sentence. It thrilled her, a little, to be so set on something. It was scary, too.

She flipped the journal shut and wound the leather tightly around its cover before sliding it into the top drawer of her desk. In its place, she pulled forward the plan for her tour of the Isles and laid it alongside her map, tracing along the coastlines with one finger. Her advisors have already concluded that the route is puzzling: first, she traced, down south to visit Armando and Karnaca before the weather turned, then up across the expanse between Serkonos and Gristol before heading along the eastern coast towards Driscol; then, her smile warming, a stop in both Alba and Caulkenny on the isle of Morley, the two cities Wyman tended to run between when they weren’t down in Dunwall. The last isle would be Tyvia and its capital city, Dabokva, before they made the return relay sprint down the western coast of Gristol. The schedule was flexible, to account for the always-changeable weather, but she hadn’t yet confided her real reasons in… well, anyone. Alone, excited, she smiled to herself.

A knock at the door disturbed her. She cleared her throat and set about shifting more pertinent paperwork atop the map. “Come in.”

The door creaked open in silence, so Emily glanced up—it was Corvo. He shut the door behind him, his expression grim. “Are you sure about this?”

That conversation again. Emily nodded without replying, gesturing instead to the chair across from her desk. Corvo sighed as he settled into it, giving her a knowing look. She spread her hands open on the desk, a gesture welcoming his conversation even as she smiled grimly.

He shook his head. “I don’t think it’s safe for you to go on this journey without the Royal Protector. Won’t you reconsider?”

“I have considered and reconsidered.” Emily shook her head in return. “Father, you’re famously infamous. You have a reputation I could not afford to buy, even with all the gold in the reserves. And for that reason, a journey to affirm my loyalties with the Isles is not a place for your threat.” He’d grown older in the years following her mother’s death, and older still following Delilah’s coup. Gone was the man who darted like a falcon—now, his movements were that of an eagle, precise and heavy, with more accuracy than she could ever hope to match, no matter how much she practiced.

His brows pushed together in thought. “I think it is. No one would fault you for taking precautions.”

“I’d rather not be taken as cautious in my own realm.” Her reply was simple, and she raised her hand to stop his protest before it began, “I know there are risks. I know! Do you think I’ve forgotten what happened to Mother? What happened to you, only a few years ago? There are more risks than I can account for. More than even _you_ could account for.” Emily sat back in her chair, smiling gently, tapping her fingernail on the chair’s plush arm, “So I’ll be aware of them, of course, but I won’t draw attention to them by bringing you with me.”

“What happens when someone takes advantage of that complacence?” Corvo rumbled. Emily noticed that the scars on his knuckles had gone whiter since he’d sat down.

“Complacence implies I’m not aware of the risks.” Emily reasoned, but Corvo’s frown still deepened, his arms crossed like a shield. Finally, she sighed, and made a loose waving motion with one hand, “You will be staying in Dunwall. That is my word as Empress. I will make it a written decree if necessary for your compliance.”

Corvo grunted his disagreement, saying only, “A decree against the Royal Protector is in poor taste.”

“Then do not force my hand.” Emily sat up a bit straighter, reaching across her desk in an attempt to encourage him. “Please, Father. This is something that will make my position stronger. It will make _me_ stronger. No harm will come to me. I promise, I will be safe.”

Corvo angled his gaze out the window, his eyes full of shadows. Haunted, Emily thought, by the time he’d rescued her from the Golden Cat, and again from the terrifying peak of Dunwall Tower. She’d been a child, then. She wished she could show him all that she’d accomplished while he’d been trapped in the hold of Delilah’s spell—perhaps that would convince him how capable she was.

 _‘Nothing will.’_ It was Wyman’s voice that drifted into her mind, a memory from one of their lazy, laughing afternoons in the secret room, _‘Nothing will ever change you being his little girl. Nowit he’s allowed to say so, it’s even more important. Let him. You’ll still be his Empress, my Em’ly.’_

After a length of silence, he gave a heavy exhale, and said only, “Show me your route again.”

That, Emily supposed, would be good enough for now.

 

There was something familiar about boarding a ship with the intention of taking of a long journey, despite the fact that her time on the Dreadful Wale had been a small percentage of her life. Perhaps it had been the first time she felt alone, Emily reflected, her gaze on the crew and company as they prepared for departure. It wasn’t true, of course—she remembered feeling alone as a child, sitting on her bed with only stuffed toys and a silent maid for company, and again as an older child, wrestled onto a bed meant for older women and made to wait until something happened.

By her side stood Irene Hurst, who’d been tasked with the impossible job of filling Alexi Mayhew’s shoes. Even several years into the fact, Emily was uncertain where she stood with the woman. It wasn’t a question of loyalty, with Irene, but rather one of emotion. Where Alexi had been earnest, warm, and devoted, Irene was dour, strict, and lawful to the letter. Emily felt safe with her, but little else.

Irene cleared her throat and stood, heels together and elbows drawn in, indicating without words the posture she hoped Emily would take. Emily, ignoring her, turned back towards the citizens grouped together near the dock and raised an arm in farewell. The meagre crowd, full of hard Dunwall faces and slumped Dunwall shoulders, managed to raise a cheer in her honour, and she cleared her throat. “Thank you, Dunwall, for your kind send off. We believe this journey is a way of reconnecting with our brothers and sisters throughout the Isles; our cousins and kin from whom we have too long been separated. Each Isle is strong and independent, and we seek not to rule with a hand that slaps at anyone’s pride. In this, our thirtieth year and the twentieth anniversary of our rule, we choose to greet each Isle personally, with open hands and open heart, in an attempt to understand all of us that much better.

“In our stead we leave our council of trusted advisors and with us we take a flock of steady, well-trained pigeons, who fly swifter than any ship. We will never be far from Dunwall. Our journey is planned and documented, and we shall return home soon. Dunwall will not be left without its Empress.” There was a noise towards the back of the crowd, and Emily grit her teeth. Instead of showing her discomfort, though, she wore her brightest Empress smile and waved, dipping her head, “Thank you.”

Irene ever an arm’s length away, Emily strode on board without looking at anyone and made her way down to the cabin belowdecks. It was a modest space, but the best the ship could offer. Emily had wanted to bargain for a space more akin to members of the crew, but both her advisors and Irene would hear nothing of it. “You are the Empress, and it would not be proper.” Was their only argument.

Emily knew she was being irresponsible—while planning even larger irresponsibility—and an insistent part of her didn’t care. Her father had crossed from Serkonos as a child in the ledgers of Dukes, but at least he’d been able to brandish a sword and make a name for herself. She’d been born into the shackles of this title, this figurehead, even though she’d experienced harsher hardships than most citizens of the Isles could imagine. After all, how many of them had gone on to be weak imitations of their mother by the age of ten?

“Empress.” Irene dipped her chin, fingers resting on her breast, “The people would appreciate if you wished them farewell from the stern of the ship.”

Emily cast her a look, scouring her tone, then stood, brushing off her trousers as though they’d been dirtied. “Do I have another speech?”

“No, you’ve spoken. You must simply make an appearance.” And so they trooped back up the stairs, Irene continuing with matters she considered of consequence, “All members of the crew have been extensively vetted, as have the guards on board. I will sleep on the floor of your cabin and—”

Emily whirled. “No.”

Irene drew up short. “Pardon?”

“You will not sleep in my cabin. I had no guards in my chambers in Dunwall and I will have no guards in my chambers on this ship.” Irene’s lower lip flattened, but Emily stood her ground, squaring her shoulders. “I will not appear paranoid. My position among my own people is not so weak as to justify that behaviour. I am more than capable of defending myself, and I know well enough to shout if someone’s trying to harm me.”

Irene clenched her jaw so tightly Emily thought it might break. Her throat moved around a measured swallow, and then she lowered her chin again, ever so stiffly. She said nothing, and Emily took that as a victory, continuing on her way up to the deck. Already, she felt the journey was going to be a long one.

  
**By J ([thedeadgayaesthetic](http://thedeadgayaesthetic.tumblr.com/))**

Several weeks of pissing spring rain, poor company, and crusting salt later, Emily was gratified to spy the sparkle of Karnaca in the distant sunshine. As they pulled into Karnaca’s glorious bay, Emily was struck by how different the city looked from the vantage of an esteemed guest rather than a creeping, shadowy fugitive. Armando was standing at the end of the dock with a full retinue of assorted chivalry, arms spread wide to welcome her arrival. As a matter of public show, they embraced warmly and exchanged perfunctory kisses on each other’s cheeks, and Armando boomed greetings in his best Luca voice, “Empress Emily Kaldwin, Karnaca welcomes you. We are eminently grateful that you have chosen our beautiful jewel of the south as the first stop on your tour through your Isles, and we intend to make a show of hospitality that others will struggle to match!”

The assorted crowd gathered about cheered loudly at this last statement; even after only a few moments on its shores, Emily could feel how much more relaxed the whole city was these days. She knew Armando had worked tirelessly with Alexandria Hypatia to continue improving the lives of the working class here, and Karnaca had grown used to being wealthy under Luca Abele’s father. Recovering its shining status had done much to settle the tension Delilah’s coup had aroused.

Despite feeling too unwashed to impress anyone, Emily smiled towards the crowd, who had now fixed their attention on her, “Duke Luca Abele, we thank you for your kindness. The rich splendor of Karnaca is something we hold dear to our heart: a city of grand stature, and with pride to match. We shall enjoy our time here, however brief it may be.”

There was further cheering as she and Armando joined hands in a firm shake, before the pomp and circumstance of retiring to his palace began. Within the carriage, they seized a moment alone to greet each other as old friends. “You’ve done well with the city, Armando.” Emily murmured in his ear, conscious of both their body guards perched without on the step of the carriage.

“They love me.” He agreed, grinning broadly but without arrogance. “I have done what I always wanted to and made life better for the common people. They still work very hard, but now, at least they have the means to enjoy life, too.”

“Would that I had more time to follow your methods. The men and women of Dunwall are hard people, and hard done by.”

“Delilah was only a small setback.” Armando did not stutter over her name the way some did—he knew Delilah had been a usurper and a fraud, and had quickly made it apparent throughout Serkonos that referring to her as Empress was an unacceptable insult upon Empress Kaldwin. Emily knew that without his support, she would have faced a much grimmer crowd here in Karnaca. “You built and built Dunwall with your advisors, for ten years, after the late Empress Kaldwin died. You can build and build again.”

“It’s been almost five years. Sometimes it feels like I’ll never succeed.”

“Empress Kaldwin, I was, until almost five years ago, only a body double. My words were never mine, and my life was nothing but an image painted on canvas by unkempt hands with irreverent intentions. If you had asked me, almost five years ago, to tell you where I would be today, I would not have said governing the greatest city in Serkonos and sharing honest words with the Empress of the Isles. You already have a great legacy in your name. I do not believe you will let it fall to pieces after all the adversity you’ve already overcome.”

Emily smiled at him, warmly. “Did you ever want to be a poet?”

Armando laughed, the sound deep and round, “As a matter of fact, I did.”

 

Emily and her retinue settled easily into one wing of the palace in Karnaca, conscious of the fact that they would be staying no more than a week. In her second public speech, which had travelled wrapped in oiled leather with an array of other speeches and detailed plans, Emily advised the shortness of her visit was because Karnaca and Dunwall enjoyed a good relationship—they’d been brought closer by the hard times some years ago, she reassured her audience. Time too was on their side, she reasoned, with Karnaca easily accessible by boat in all but the wettest, stormiest season. The weather farther north made it difficult to travel there except in the spring-leading-summer season, and so she had a very tight schedule.

“Thank you.” Emily murmured as the runner she’d sent to the docks delivered a copy of the harbourmaster’s log. She ran her finger down the names of the ships, ignoring the column for cargo. She knew what she was looking for, and she knew she wouldn’t find it here. The welcoming shine of Karnaca seemed duller all of a sudden, and she threw herself back in her seat, sighing.

Irene knocked the doorframe and waited only a second for her wave of acknowledgement before proceeding into the room, her back straight and her mouth downturned. She began as Emily sat at attention. “Empress Kaldwin. I would like your permission to speak freely.”

“Of course, Irene.” Alexi had never needed to ask. Emily frowned herself, folding her arms together.

“I will not speak against you, nor will I make any motions other than those necessary to protect you. However, now that we have arrived in Karnaca, I feel I must confess to you that I am suspicious of your motives in organising this tour, and remind you that I will not permit you to place yourself at risk in any capacity.” Irene’s cheekbones went pink as she spoke, even though her voice never wavered. “I understand my place and do not mean to speak out of order. I would have you remember what you mean to the people of this country, of these Isles, and of Dunwall.”

It was Emily’s first instinct to dismiss her as sounding like Corvo—overprotective and zealously concerned, without regard for Emily’s own skill. But as she watched the expression change on Irene’s face, she realised the the woman was hardly older than her. Irene would have been old enough to remember some of Jessamine’s reign, and certainly old enough to remember the hellup following her assassination. Irene would have been one of those downtrodden Dunwallers wondering if they would be underfoot for the rest of their lives, unable to imagine a just rule in their future. Sometimes, Emily forgot how perilous her experiences looked from the outside, no matter how defined by the events she felt.

Emily dipped her head, being the gracious Empress. “Thank you, Irene. I am grateful for all that you do.”

Bless her, Irene knew a dismissal when she heard one, and turned on her heel.

Emily returned to her list of ships, then set about penning a letter to Wyman, who she hoped could do some of her legwork before she arrived. She crafted it to sound like a quick scribble between lovers: “Dearest Wyman, When I arrive in Alba, let us while away the nights on the ship that saved us, all love, your Em’ly.”

Her father called Wyman her worst-kept secret, but he did so with a smile; he’d been a worst-kept secret himself, and Emily thought he took some comfort in her continuing the tradition. Wyman was the only one she trusted to understand her need to find Meagan again—Wyman was the one who’d listen to her whip back and forth between hating Billie Lurk, who’d helped Daud to kill her mother, and adoring Meagan Foster, with whom she’d found common ground. Meagan Foster, who’d saved her life more than once. Meagan Foster, who’d seemed to know her.

The last time they’d been together, Emily had leaned back-to-back with Wyman on the roof outside her safe room and spat grape seeds towards the sea, recounting how the Void wound through her dreams like a nightmarish creature, and how Meagan had always seemed to have a hard but understanding word that gave her comfort. She’d had to tell the whole story piecemeal, between Wyman’s trips to the north—somehow, that had made it all the more true in its retelling. She was ever grateful that Wyman chose to use their brief downtime between formal engagements to brave the journey all the way back to Dunwall, one which Emily knew was perilous and uncomfortable.

She didn’t want to marry Wyman, but she wished she did. She angled her gaze out the window, towards the sparkling southern sea, and watched the ocean roll.

 

After four solid days of feasting, nobles, and endless social events Emily could scarcely recall, the prospect of a quiet retreat to a ship’s cabin sounded ideal. The next key port on the agenda was to Gristol’s other major city, Driscol, and took just over a month to reach. Contrary to the easy passage through the channels of Serkonos, this journey sent them through the rough eastern corridors; the leg from Cullero to Whitecliff was a taut affair characterised by huge, choppy waves and great, bellowing shouts from the captain and crew. The waters took pity on them the afternoon they drew into Whitecliff, settling down almost uncannily and allowing them to drift into harbour without incident. The stop was for little more than supplies; Whitecliff was accessible to Dunwall by land and Emily had a good ongoing relationship established with its captain, who was stationed on its military base. With their water casks refilled and their food stores replenished, they set sail once more. The captain followed the coast where they could but peeled away into open waters as required to ride the quickness of the sea currents.

Thunder cracked loudly in the distance, with storms billowing far too close for comfort. The ocean felt wilder here—larger than it had before, even while they kept the cliffs in sight off their port side. Emily caught herself staring across the great expanse, watching distant lightning flash against the water and speaking little to others.

Huddled in the darkness of her cabin, Emily murmured her mother’s old lullabies to herself to drown out the midnight songs of distant—but too close—whales.

Mornings often offered the calmest sailing, between the time when the sun peeked over the horizon and when it reached its apex in the sky. Emily emerged from her cabin with an aching hand and bleary eyes; every time, she checked for a dip in the hulking cliffs and a sign of the rambling construction of Driscol, but for too many days, there was nothing but stone and salty spray. They ended up mooring out one more night than she would have liked, when the glow of Driscol's lights was visible but not near enough for the captain to make their final push that evening. Irene studied her countenance and then, after dinner, suggested she take an early evening, to ensure she would be at her best upon arrival in the morning.

Frustrated, Emily shut herself away and pressed her hands to her ears, even though that did nothing to silence the sounds pealing in her head. Her fingers jogged and danced over the leather hiding her Mark; when the pain was too much, she pressed her other palm against it and bit her lip, fighting the call with all her might. It had been a long time since she'd drawn upon the Outsider's powers—there was no real need for them in the realm of politics—and at sea, in his domain, he seemed keen to punish her for that choice.

Their arrival in Driscol was bogged by working ships, and they were forced to queue behind several other ship's captains before being logged into the register. In his defense, the harbourmaster had the presence of mind to look guilty when he realised it was the Empress herself who’d been delayed by his insistence on order, but the look of his log book gave Emily some comfort, and hope. From her quick glance over Irene’s shoulder, it looked like not a single ship had been in or out of Driscol without the harbourmaster’s knowledge in a long time. Row upon orderly row listed ship names, docking dates, cargo, crew members, departure dates—it looked like the most complete record of a harbour Emily had ever seen.

There was no time to worry about it now. Approaching them, garbed in Abbey attire, was a man whose smile was thin, shallow, and not the least bit comforting, especially after the familiarity of Armando. “Empress Emily Kaldwin, we are most grateful you have taken the time to grace our humble city with your grandiose presence. I am Overseer Kenwyn, and I am privileged to welcome you to our little port.” Emily straightened immediately, as did Irene; where Armando's words had been honest but inflated for effect, Kenwyn’s were sour and precise, needlepoint jabs like the stinger of a bee. She stared him down and smiled like the Empress even while frustration pooled within her. He went on without seeming affected, turning halfway from her and gesturing towards the sprawling city, “As you know, Driscol is hard-working, like your Dunwall. We are struggling to maintain the whaling trade and casting eyes towards Whitecliff in respect of the Abbey of the Everyman. Of course, we all keep you in our thoughts and hearts at all times.”

 _And your hands._ Emily thought, counting the seven rings on his fingers and tallying how many coins stamped with her image it must have cost to obtain them—far more than the scriptures would like, she decided. She rubbed at the glove hiding her Mark, suddenly alight with itch like it had been rubbed with pollen, and thrust away the looming memory of Hiram Burrows. Overseer Kenwyn was not allowed to be as dangerous as Burrows had been.

Irene surreptitiously coughed into one fist, and Emily lifted her chin, performing. “We are grateful for your warm reception, Overseer Kenwyn. We will be staying in Driscol until the storms nearest the coast have run their course, and then travelling onwards towards Morley.” She paused, recalling the details of the speech folded away in her pocket. She moved her hand in an arc to match Kenwyn’s motion towards the city. “We had hoped for the opportunity to live like a citizen of Driscol before we depart, as we could not linger in Whitecliff, where the Abbey is most active. We know the scriptures are also strong in Driscol, and we are interested in how they affect our citizens’ lives.” Eyes fixed firmly on Kenwyn, she finished with smile that glowed with a warmth she did not feel.

And hah, now he looked surprised—but Kenwyn recovered quickly, bowing to her with a reasonable flourish and smiling widely in return, “Of course, Empress Kaldwin II.” The choice to brand her as a sequel made Emily hate him more, and she felt red fury wrinkle into the pit of her belly. “I have an escort here, to lead you to the quarters reserved for your use. There are no palaces this side of Gristol, but we have set aside the use of a full townhouse for you and your entourage. The current owner has volunteered, out of respect for the Abbey.”

Another jab, but Emily went on smiling like her face would crack. “We appreciate the consideration. We shall have to thank him for his generosity.”

Kenwyn smiled thinly at her over his shoulder, beckoning to a lingering young woman in Abbey cloth as he did. “Indeed.”

She was a pale woman who kept her gaze downcast, leading them efficiently through the streets without presuming conversation. She stopped before a dark wooden door with peeling paint, and glanced up just enough to smile serenely at Emily before stepping out of the way.

The house proved bare, but clean. Emily wound slowly through the place—Irene trailing behind her, listing the safeties and dangers of each new room—and marvelled at how similar it was to the Hound Pits pub. No walls or towers, like her own palace, and no airy, open spaces like the palace Theodanis Abele had built—here, the rooms were simply constructed, with plain doors separating them and carpets laid only down the center of hallways. The stairs were well-worn, looking as though a thousand pairs of boots had run them up and down, but the wood seemed solid and reliable. It would have been years ago that the city’s historic sailors had trooped inland to fell trees and drag them to shore, and too expensive now to carry out any cosmetic repairs. Much of the furniture looked to have been salvaged from ships, all of it colourless with age and set about with worn dressings.

Irene approved a room on the second level as Emily’s personal quarters: a reasonably-sized room at one end of the building, with the most serviceable bed in the place and two windows, one to either side of the external corner. She stood in the centre of the room and huffed. “It isn’t good enough for an Empress, but it will have to do.”

“Perhaps I’ll have to spend some time as less than an Empress.” Emily spoke flippantly, settling down onto the bed and pressing into the mattress with her palm. It was too firm, and promised an uncomfortable night’s sleep.

Irene jerked around, expression aghast, and opened her mouth before stumbling to a stop, her voice low, “May I have your permission to speak freely, Empress?”

“Oh for—of course.”

Irene went on gravely. “You are never less than an empress.”

Emily stretched her face into an expression that might pass for a smile. “I know, Irene.”

For a moment, Irene’s expression wavered between serious and sad, before she cleared her throat and excused herself from he room, citing that she needed to investigate the upper floor.

Emily watched the door swing shut after her department footsteps and scowled. Abruptly, she shot to her feet. She _could_ be less than an empress—she’d done it before, and she knew how. Besides that, she reasoned, kicking her salt-licked boots from her feet, she needed to be certain that Overseer Kenwyn had no untoward plans. There was only one way she could trust to find that out.

 

Disguising herself was both easier and harder than she expected. Clothing herself in grungy garments from her packed clothing, placing a worker’s cap upon her head and slipping out the window as stealthily as a cat had been easy; strolling casually down the street as though she belonged despite the oppressive sensation that every pair of eyes was watching her was more difficult. With her hands in her pockets and her means of self-defense hidden beneath a rough leather vest, Emily knew she looked the part of an average Driscollian, but somehow, she felt like an imposter.

She stopped at the intersection of two streets, gazing up and down either direction and trying to decide which way to go. In the end, she chose the direction leading away from the harbour, slouched her shoulders, and tried to find a flow of foot traffic she could join.

Not moments later, behind her, she heard the quick footsteps of several soldiers setting out on patrol at once, and knew her escape had been discovered. Pressing her lips firmly together, Emily decided that was just too bad for Irene—she wasn’t going back until she found out what she was looking for.

As luck would have it, she spotted the Abbey woman who’d escorted them. The woman was walking in the same direction Emily had chosen, and that seemed as good a place to start as any. Emily wandered along behind her, staying far enough away that she wouldn’t seem to be following the other woman and pausing every so often in front of shop windows. Most of them were bare, many selling a limited number of supplies for long boat journeys and others selling frugal wares for living, and the prices on display were not cheap. Emily frowned at the numbers, knowing her knowledge was lacking in this context but wondering how in the world the average person could be getting by with costs so high.

She was so distracted that she nearly lost the woman, and had to quicken her pace as the woman disappeared into a moderately-sized building. After Emily entered, she realised this was Driscol’s Abbey, and quickly slipped the worker’s hat from her head, repeating the scriptures to herself in her mind. Far be it from her to interrupt anyone’s prayer, she shuffled into the room and stood against the wall, eyes darting around.

When it seemed like no one was watching her, she slipped into one of the hallways. The first thing she saw was a pair of Overseers walking towards her, and without thinking, she shifted. Smoothing up the stairs as a shadow felt like exhaling a breath she’d been holding in for years, and if she’d had a working mouth, she thought she might have laughed. Her heart felt lighter, and the headache that had started south of Whitecliff finally eased away from her.

Resuming her human arms and legs was more of a disappointment than she expected it to be. She leaned on a desk, head hanging and breath shuddering, and almost jumped out of her skin when a voice came from behind her.

“Empress Kaldwin?”

Emily whirled around, hands hovering over her weapons, and blinked in surprise. “You’re… the woman who…”

The woman beckoned with a finger on her lips, then turned to lead her from the room without waiting to see if she would follow. Emily hesitated for a moment, but as she heard encroaching footfalls, she committed to her choice and darted after the woman. It was up some stairs, down a hall, then up a further, thinner set of stairs that the woman led her: the woman didn’t speak again until they paused before a door, when she extracted a key from her pocket, “My room. I am housed by the Abbey’s generosity, thanks to the Light. There is a window, if you’re concerned. I’ll open it.”

She went ahead, leaving Emily to watch as she crossed the modest space and pushed open a square window, through which Emily was relatively confident she could escape if necessary. She entered the room and allowed the woman to pass alongside her and shut the door behind them, offering a further explanation, “You would have been caught in there. That room is never empty for long.”

It had simply been the first room she’d come across in her shadowy state; she hadn’t been thinking. Now, with her thoughts clear, she had many questions. Studying the woman, she rolled them over in her head, and settled on, “How did you recognise me?”

The woman smiled, the same serene expression Emily had seen only a few hours ago. “Empress Kaldwin, I must apologise to you. I believe I have an unfair advantage. I’ve had you described to me in detail.”

Emily was at the window in two quick strides, her weapons drawn. Her voice hard, she asked, “Who are you?”

“My name is Lucius.” He paused, self-consciously running a hand through his long, fine hair. A second later, he shrugged gently, “Billie Lurk saved my life.”

That… was the last thing Emily had expected. Billie Lurk’s name, here, on the lips of someone from the Abbey? She stared. She tried to make her mouth move, but her entire body was slack. Was Meagan—Billie—really so close already?

Lucius spoke again, “I’m afraid I’m not a woman, either, although many make that mistake.”

“I’m sorry.” She’d had that blunderous conversation with Wyman once; her thoughts of them seemed both safe and overbearing in this strange situation. At least the comment had gotten her mouth working again. Emily pressed a hand to her forehead, murmuring, “Why did… How?”

“Please sit down. I’ll explain what I can to you.”

Emily eased into place on the wooden chair nearest the window, keeping an eye trained on Lucius as he settled down on the bed. The furniture in this room was similar to the furniture in her townhouse: bare, functional, and without warmth, though for some reason the room felt comfortable and lived-in. She ran a hand through her hair and then spread both out before her, asking without words.

Lucius folded his hands together. “Billie pulled me up from the sea; I would have drowned otherwise. She was a few days out from Driscol at the time, low on supplies, and agreed to keep me on until a friend of mine made it back to town. He’s a Whaler, usually gone for many months at a time.” That, too, put Wyman to mind, and Emily bit back the pang of sympathy she felt for this stranger. She couldn’t trust him, not yet. “We made good company for one another, I think. She eventually told me why she was travelling north, although if you know her as well as she implied, you’ll understand that I’m not about to tell you the details she shared with me. We both had a number of secrets we eventually divulged in one another.”

“She told you about me?” Emily asked, incredulous. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so out of depth with a conversation, and she’d had conversations with where more nobles than she could count were opposing her.

Lucius spread his hands, the motion seeming gentle, “She told me about what happened in Karnaca, and her part of it. You were a character in that story, as I’m sure you can expect. I had never seen you before today, but everyone knew the Empress was coming.”

“So what…” Emily shook her head; she wasn’t ready to ask that question yet. Instead she drummed her fingers over the back of her gloved hand, hedging, “Did you see me…?” How _did_ you ask a man of the cloth if he saw your heretical blessings in action?

“I did.” Lucius dipped his head, then clutched at his clothing, above his heart, and smiled weakly. “I understand, though. No one chooses His Mark.”

 _‘Now it’s your turn.’_ Emily remembered, but the admission was more than enough to put her at rest; it reminded her of the way Meagan had talked about the Outsider’s gifts. She leaned back in the chair, gazing thoughtfully out the window, “So she’s been to Driscol recently?”

“Some time ago, now.” Lucius admitted. “We had parted ways by the time word of your tour reached the city, but even before then, she had joked that you showing up this far north would mean nothing but trouble for her. I admit, I’m a bit shocked it really happened. Though I understand that Overseer Kenwyn and the others are grateful for the chance to show you how Driscol lives.”

Emily found herself on her feet, hardly listening, pacing in a small circle and pressing her fist into her chin. “Do you know where she was headed?”

“North.” Lucius said simply, his voice softer than it had been a moment ago. “Further north.”

“Okay.” Now Emily pressed that balled fist into her other palm, firm in her decision. This _would_ happen. One way or another, she was going to accomplish what she’d set out to do. She smiled at Lucius. “Thank you, Lucius. For saving me down there, and for what you’ve told me.”

“Of course, Empress.” Lucius dipped his head again, the sheen of his white-blonde hair cascading over his shoulders. Emily watched the sun catch in its shine before she hauled herself out the window, up onto the roof, and away. Her heart was pounding.

It was going to happen.

 

“Empress Kaldwin, we are grateful to see you returned safely.”

Emily had never seen her so angry. Her words were measured, certainly, but everyone in the room could feel how utterly furious Irene Hurst was. Her neck and shoulders were so rigidly-set they looked like stone, and her hands were shaking like leaves in a gale.

All-but grinding her teeth, Irene went on, and Emily felt the desire to be ashamed stirring somewhere within her breast. “Of course there is no danger to the Empress here in Driscol, a city on the same isle as our own Dunwall, but we were dismayed to re-enter the Empress’s room on the middle floor and to find it wholly vacated. We raised no alarm, per the Empress’s previous communications regarding dignity in the face of the unknown, but we were left with grave concerns as to how we could reaffirm her wellbeing.”

“I wanted to stretch my legs.” Emily spoke over the heavy silence in the room, as all eyes were upon her. She did feel guilty—Irene’s words were the closest Irene could muster to scolding, and no one here would dare to question her own actions, regardless of how poorly-justified they were. One of the soldiers in the room nodded once, but Irene’s face hadn’t so much as twitched. Emily lifted her chin. “It’s been over two weeks since we left Whitecliff and, as you’ve said, Driscol is safe.” … She’d completely forgotten about investigating Overseer Kenwyn. Damn.

Irene had remained still but shaking while Emily spoke, and ground out the words, “May I speak to you privately, Empress Kaldwin?”

“Of course.” The smile on her face felt as false as the one that had greeted Overseer Kenwyn some hours ago, and right that moment she hated Irene. She hated Irene because it was easier than hating her role in her own life, and because it was easier than admitting she’d been stupid and incorrect and childish. Emily thumped up the stairs and heard Irene’s precise, marching steps following behind her; she chose not to enter her own room for discussion, but rather the sitting room alongside it. Emily stood with her arms crossed, waiting.

Irene pulled the door shut behind her and cleared her throat. When she spoke, her voice was much quieter than it had been a moment ago, though no less measured. “May I have your permission to speak freely, Empress?”

“Haven’t you already done so?”

Irene’s face went white. She inhaled loudly, exhaled once, and replied, “I have not. May I have your permission?”

“Fine.” Emily spoke dismissively, distracted by being frustrated with herself for forgetting about Kenwyn. Perhaps Kenwyn had set Lucius on her for just this reason—but that was assuming Kenwyn had known that Lucius’s story would distract her, and that assumption required more people than her and Wyman to know of her interest in finding Billie Lurk. That couldn’t be right.

“Empress, Emily, I thought you _understood_.” The sudden sound of Irene’s voice, thick with emotion, startled Emily into looking her in the eye. “I had thought you took my meaning when I impressed upon you how much you mean to the Isles. To the people of Dunwall in particular, but in all ports, my soldiers have heard words of appreciation for your presence. The people of the Isles have always needed to see strong leadership in their rulers, to match their own strength. All the hardships you’ve overcome just to sit your throne make you ideal in the ethos of the Isles, and now you’ve taken it upon yourself to make your convictions visible in the best possible way. The Isles are a separated people, and not in my parents’ lifetimes has a ruler engaged with the people the way you are purporting to do.”

Emily found herself staring, shocked by this display of passion in a woman she’d always thought of as cold and rigid. Irene’s face had gone from white to red while she spoke, and though there were no tears in her eyes, Emily could simply feel how earnest she was. In this moment, she was reminded of Alexi Mayhew.

“So why would you dispose of your credibility and responsibility to sneak about like a common thief?”

But Irene Hurst was Irene Hurst, and Emily frowned. “That isn’t what happened.”

“Isn’t it? To see their Empress sneaking out of windows, dressed in rags and disdaining the company of her personal guard—what kind of impression do you believe that makes?”

They were words she’d heard before; her memory knew them, but she couldn’t place the voice. Perhaps it had been her mother. Emily sighed, wringing one wrist in her opposite hand. Finally, she said, “We’re not going to get anywhere, Irene.” Irene blinked at her before lowering her gaze slightly, so Emily went on. “There are things I need to investigate—things I trust with myself alone. I know my skills better than anyone except perhaps the Royal Protector, and I know that no one else on this journey can match them. I will need to go disguised among my own people from time to time. There’s history to support the validity of that.”

Irene, looking very uncertain, inclined her head in the slightest of nods.

“However,” she hated this whole conversation, but particularly making this concession, “I appreciate your devotion to my safety, and believe it’s possible that situations where your or your soldiers’ assistance could be the difference between my life and death. After all, that’s why you’ve all come with me. So I propose that you select two members of your guard for my protection when I travel covertly. I will advise you that I need to go somewhere quietly, and similarly, your guards will attend that location quietly. They are in your employ, so I leave the choice to you. With this plan in place, I will have one soldier to attend me in emergencies and one soldier to advise you as a matter of urgency. Would this be acceptable to you?”

Irene looked very much like she wished to state that she had no choice in the matter and therefore was obliged to accept. Instead, she adjusted her posture and offered Emily a low, proper bow, saying only, “Of course, my Empress.”

And that, Emily supposed, would have to be the way things worked.

  
**By Mittie ([mittiepaul](http://mittiepaul.tumblr.com/))**

They were forced to wait out a tumultuous summer storm before they could leave Driscol. Overseer Kenwyn proved consistent company, eager to escort her through the city and point out places where the Abbey was pushing for improvements. She learned that he was responsible for implementing a program where the Abbey fostered children and young adults who might otherwise be on the streets. He seemed especially dedicated to pulling Driscol’s gaze from the sea towards the rough mountains and forests which backed their city—more than once she’d heard him say the whale trade was dead, and the city would be better off if they broke clean of it now rather than after they’d all been bled dry. She could see his argument.

By the time they left, she still wasn’t sure she trusted him, but he had managed to convince her that he had Driscol’s best interests at heart. Her sheet of notes sketched the details of a new crown position in Driscol, a sort of minister of development who would report directly to her. It would not be Kenwyn, but it would be someone to help further his ambitions without her losing track of his clout. An elegant solution to avoid any future problems, she thought.

Her headache returned in full force only an hour after they reached the open sea, and with it came a sudden deluge of torrential rain. The water struck the deck like the fury of a wronged god, and Irene ushered her to the safety of her cabin while the crew strapped themselves to useful places and shouted through the winds. Emily braced herself in her cabin and stared out the porthole at waves that seemed guaranteed to pull them under. Her head pounded and her hand ached tremendously, and when she shut her eyes she saw the same bottomless black eyes set in swirling grey that had haunted her dreams when she was a child.

She neither slept nor woke but spent the next several days in a stuporous state, swallowing nothing but stale water as even the thought of food made her stomach turn. 

The leg from Driscol to Alba was short, but the storm chased after them even once they hit the peninsula on the southern tip of Morley. Only when they were half a day’s sail from Alba’s small port that did weather finally ease, giving way to a cool wind peppered with specks of spray. Emily stood on deck with her arms wrapped tightly around herself to ward off the chill, frowning in the direction of the shore; Morley was well-known as a rough-and-tumble, downtrodden island, much worse off than other areas of the Isles. It hadn’t been so long ago that the people here had been preparing to rise against her, she reflected, as the drooping buildings of the port loomed into view. Her advisors had warned her to expect both colder weather and colder reception the further north they travelled, but she could think of nothing worse than huddling belowdecks while they came to port, before slinking off through the weather like a rat.

A rat from Dunwall—she’d heard that phrase before, probably out of someone from up this way.

Wyman, unfortunately, was not an ambassador, so they couldn’t be the first person Emily called for upon arrival. Instead, she straightened her back, smiled her best Empress smile, and shook hands with the small number of delegates who’d braved the oppressive elements to greet her. The docks were nigh-on deserted, and even quicker than usual, someone was ushering her into a carriage and whisking her away.

As she gazed out the windows of the carriage, Irene surreptitiously pushed a handful of hardtack into her grip and murmured, “There will be a meal celebrating your arrival, Empress.” Emily could think of few things less appetising than the food in her hand, but Irene was right—if she was going to get through this evening, it wouldn’t do to sit before a laden table with a many-days-empty stomach.

It was several hours later, after the formal dinner had been survived and a hot bath had been enjoyed, when Wyman was permitted to enter to her chambers. As soon as she saw them, Emily threw her arms around Wyman’s shoulders and hugged tightly, murmuring into their ear, “I missed you.”

“Ahh, my Em’ly.” Wyman squeezed Emily in return, nuzzling her cheek. Perhaps the most telling thing about Wyman was that they never grew any whiskers on their face, the way her father did when he forgot the purpose of shaving. Wyman had a body like hers—lithe and smooth—but lacked any presence of breasts. Wyman was happy for most people to take them for a man, but they’d confided in Emily long ago that they felt more like someone partway between both than one or the other.

Given her experience with the Void, Emily found that emotion relatable. Or perhaps it was just the result of being full of her own complications and contradictions. Either way, Emily didn’t mind.

Emily kissed Wyman’s forehead and pulled back, holding their shoulders and speaking seriously, “Did my message reach you?”

“It did.” Wyman nodded confirmation, cocking their head to one side, “You’re finally going after her, huh? I hope you’re not about to become a pirate on me.”

“No, of course not.” Emily shook her head, feeling quicker to smile that she had in months. “It’s just that… I never got the chance to settle everything. It’s unfair that she got to tell me about who she really was right when I couldn’t do anything with it. I… want to ask her so many things, Wyman. Like why she helped me in the first place. Like why she helped Daud kill my father.”

“Em’ly…” While she’d been speaking, Wyman had crossed the room and thrown themself down on the bed, arms above their head. “Did you ever think that maybe who she ‘really was’ is both those people? The person who helped you, _and_ the person who killed Empress Jessamine? People don’t have to make sense.”

“I know.” Emily frowned in their direction, then grabbed Wyman by the wrists and hauled them upwards, “Off the bed, you! You’re filthy.”

“It isn’t my fault you went to bathe without me, Empress.” Wyman countered, only teasing at being cross. With the momentum from Emily’s tug, Wyman pressed in against her and kissed her lightly. “Do you want my news or not?”

“You found her?”

“No.” Wyman raised their hands to stave off Emily’s frustration, “But I did find out that the Dreadful Wale docked in here within the last six months.”

“Oh.” She tried, but Emily couldn’t contain her disappointment. She sank down on the end of the bed, clasping her hands together. “That’s hardly better than where I was when I left Dunwall.”

“You think so?” Wyman shook their head, fingers drumming at their chin, “I think it’s solid proof that she travelled in this direction. Is that something you had before?”

“I met someone in Driscol who’s seen her.” Emily replied glumly.

“Really?”

“She saved his life, actually.” Emily went on, feeling more defeated as she did, “But she’s using her old name now.”

“Billie Lurk is the captain who checked in here.” Wyman nodded, eyeing Emily’s frustrated countenance as they did. “Is that it, then? She’s not Meagan Foster anymore. She just that old assassin.”

Emily scowled at them, shaking her head, “Now you’re just being contrary for the sake of it.”

“But it makes you feel better.” Wyman settled down on the bed next to Emily, slinging an arm around her shoulders, “And you know better than to be so disappointed. Where’s your excitement? You’re closer than you were before.”

“I still don’t know where she’s going, or why.”

“Aha, well perhaps this Wyman can help you with that one.” Wyman raised a finger in the air; when Emily looked in their direction, they winked, “Seems to be that the old barkeep by the docks had her asking for the Knife of Dunwall.”

“Daud?” Emily’s eyes widened. “She’s looking for Daud? Why?” Suddenly, she was gripped with panic, even though she knew better than to be so incensed. Her fingers tightened on the edge mattress, the back of her Marked hand suddenly throbbing. “Are they going to assassinate me, too?”

“Might be.” Wyman shrugged, sliding a hand onto Emily’s knee. “But you’re an Empress and an assassin in your own right, so I think you’re always in precisely the same amount of danger really.”

It was so different to the way Corvo and Irene thought that Emily leaned over and pressed her face gratefully into Wyman’s cheek. “What would I do without you?”

“Suffer, I think.” Wyman replied, grinning.

 

Empress Emily Kaldwin was much too important to slum around in the taverns by the docks, but with Wyman by her side and a cover on her face, she made a passable old Whaler searching for their former leader. Wyman had warned her against speaking too much with her southern accent and polished countenance, so Emily had stuffed a wad of cloth in the side of her mouth and bitten her tongue. When she spoke, she sounded hollow and disjointed, nothing like the most important woman in the Isles.

It was thrilling. Despite her brief escape in Driscol, she’d spent far too long penned in by her responsibilities—ever since she’d left Dunwall, she’d been no one other than Empress Kaldwin, and Irene hadn’t let her forget it. Being a shadow again felt amazing.

The elation made it easy enough to ignore that two of Irene’s soldiers had been dispatched on their heels. The two of them were chatting like they had the evening off work and were choosing to spend it accordingly, so Emily laughed with Wyman and did the same. If Irene wanted to worry, let her—Emily knew she’d made adequate concessions already.

Wyman fetched the beers, which tasted like they’d been thinned with water, and they settled at the bar, ready to pursue their leading conversation. Wyman began by bemoaning how much work had dried up in the south now that murders weren’t so much in fashion and Emily laughed darkly, replying that she was heading north to see if they could get that changed.

The barkeep raised his eyebrows, but kept wiping the pint in his hand, his rag dirtier than Emily would have seen used on a floor.

Wyman leaned in as though the conversation was quiet and secretive, and asked in a loud whisper. “Whatcha mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Emily motioned with her pint of beer, her voice thick with the cloth in her cheek. “Word is the Knife of Dunwall’s holed up this way, they reckon. Anyone gonna get Dunwall back in the business of running blood it’s him, innit?”

Wyman gasped, but the barkeep coughed loudly then, prompting Emily to look in his direction. “If you know something about the Knife, you wanna let me know?”

“He’s dull.” The barkeep was curt, defensive and rough, but Wyman slid right down the bar towards him, leaning in with interest.

“Really? The most famed assassin in the Isle’s lost his teeth?”

“That most famed is the Lord Protector, isn’t it?” Internally, Emily swelled with pride and gratitude at the bartkeeper’s retort. The feeling was swiftly followed by shame for so thoroughly acting against what he father would have wanted. She bolstered herself; there was no backing down now, this late into the journey. Now… now it felt like she was closer than ever, if someone else was talking about Daud, and Billie had gone to find him. Surely, somewhere. Nearby.

“He’s just some old man now, you know.” Wyman chatted on, playing the barkeep the way Emily had seen them do to merchants, “The Empress didn’t even want to take him with her! She’s up here in ol’ Morley and hasn’t got a dagger to her name. Bet the Knife’s still sharp enough for that.”

“Don’t incite stupid things, you silly sot.” The barkeep rose up, defensive and angry at once, but when Wyman shrank away and raised their hands meekly, he settled again, finally setting aside the pint glass he’d been wiping. “I don’t make a habit of directing people t’wards a man who wants to be left alone. You’re not the first Whaler come here looking for him.” He gave a nod in Emily’s direction, who returned the motion. “But he said he was going to hole up somewhere in Tyvia, as far away as he could get. He said he bet he’d never be alone to the day he died, and he looked like he wished he could be.”

“Wonder what his problem is.” Wyman muttered thoughtfully.

Emily was surprised to hear herself respond. “He wants to be alone with his regrets.” Her voice, unlike her own, felt deeper than normal, too.

Wyman and the barkeeper both stared at her a moment, before the barkeeper gave a single, slow nod. “That’s it. That other Whaler said the same thing. You’re all the damn same.” Idly, he marked himself against the Outsider’s influence, and then turned away, effectively ending their conversation.

Wyman chuckled softly to themself, leaving Emily to wonder how right the barkeeper was.

 

The next morning, Emily woke to Wyman by her side and grinned, wrapping her arms around them and squeezing. Sleepily, Wyman kicked back in her direction and moaned into the pillow, “No, please. You’ve no idea how long it’s been since I’ve slept somewhere comfortable.”

Emily threw a light punch into their shoulder, speaking without sympathy, “I’ve slept on a boat more weeks in the last dozen than I’d like to count. There are things I need to do, and that means you need to get out of bed.” She rose, her naked skin pimpling in protest against the chill in the air, and reached for the robe hanging alongside the bed.

“Uh oh.” Wyman propped themself up on one elbow, studious, “I recognise that Em’ly voice. That’s the ‘I’m going to get things done and so help whoever stands in my way.’ voice.”

Glancing back over her shoulder, Emily grinned. “That’s right. I am the Empress, after all.”

Wyman motioned a bow without making any movement towards leaving the bed, so Emily took matters into her own hands: she seized the covers and wrenched them away. Wyman shrieked protest and clutched for them, pulling them back against their exposed body. Emily could barely hear the thumping on the door above her laughter.

“Empress Kaldwin?” It was Irene’s voice, Emily eventually discerned, sounding no where near as amused as she and Wyman were, “Are you well?”

Emily cleared her throat, easing her grip on the bedcovers as Wyman went still and wide-eyed. “Yes, Irene, thank you. Will we be able to see that selection of works from the Festival of Churners? Wyman mentioned it has an excellent selection this year, and I want Morley to know the Empire is interested in what’s important to them.”

“Of course, Empress.” Emily thought that perhaps she could hear a warmer note in Irene’s words—Emily couldn’t tell if it was was a burgeoning note of approval for Wyman or just gratitude that Emily was engaging with the local culture. What Emily wanted, though, was to glean the works for even the slightest hint that would bring her closer to her quarry. She seeking Meagan, not Daud, but the Knife of Dunwall was a more recognised figure than his former accomplice ever would be and Emily knew she’d find Billie wherever she found Daud.

She made a real effort to engage with the folk in Alba, and again in Caulkenny when they scooted further along the coast. Wyman stole away in her cabin for the half-day’s journey, moaning all the while of how stuffy and cramped it was. Emily eventually told them that if they hated sailing so damn much, they needed to stop travelling so far from her on such a regular basis. In the privacy of her quarters, Wyman kissed her neck and said they couldn’t stop even if they wanted to, no matter how much they missed their Em’ly. The money was good, and the adventure was better. “Besides,” Wyman added, when Emily frowned and stroked their hair, “I wouldn’t be your worst-kept secret if I didn’t swan about attracting gossip, right?” Emily hit them, then, and laughed until her ribs ached and her face was streaked with tears. When Wyman was far away, it was easy to forget how much she missed them.

 

Caulkenny was warmer than Alba—not in temperature, but in spirit. Emily watched the people approach her with reservation, and walk away with a renewed sense of belonging. She marvelled at how little sparked such a huge change in their attitude towards her. Compared to the modest turnout when they first sailed in, the crowd to see off their departure was robust and rambunctious, nearly ten times the size of the original. Emily was surprised to find herself disappointed to go, and thought maybe now she could understand at least a part of what kept drawing Wyman back here, again and again.

Wyman had been her constant companion while she toured Morley, and she felt like the world had dropped out from beneath her feet when she realised she was walking onto the boat without them. Irene had crafted her schedule so they could steal a half-hour alone before her departure—it hadn’t hit her, then, that this time she would be the one leaving someone behind. At the top of the boarding plank, she turned and waved to a crowd that was nearly spilling into the harbour, all the while scouring it for the face of the one she loved best.

She spotted them: Wyman was perched atop a pyramid of barrels, waving towards her with a sad smile on their face. Emily’s heart caught in her throat; before now, Wyman had always been the one to shoulder the more difficult half of being parted: being the instigator of the separation. She swallowed thickly around something that felt like guilt, and clung to the mask of impassive Empress the same way her father had worn the face of a monster to hide his tired eyes.

Wyman balanced their way to standing, cupped their hands to their mouth, and shouted, “All hail the Empress of the Isles!” A cheer went up from the crowd, and Wyman made a sweeping motion for them to join in. “All hail!”

The sound struck her like a wall, and she stared, mouth agape, as they carried on chanting without guidance. Irene soldiers and the rest of her company took up the call as well—through the clamour, she looked at Wyman again, who winked in her direction and mouthed, “Good luck, my Em’ly.” She was so full of emotions she thought she might burst; it was a relief to retire to her cabin to let them out privately.

Then they were on their way again. The weather couldn’t have been more different from the sorry state they’d pulled in under: the sun was brilliant, the wind was warm and full, and the ocean beckoned to Emily like it had never done before. Her head was clear, her heart full, and her hand without aches. The echo of Caulkenny hummed in her ears, and she after she’d regained her composure, she took a position in the prow, forward-facing and at ease.

In Dunwall, she’d been excited to get started but put off by the absence of her sea legs; in Karnaca, she’d gazed upon the map and wished the journey were shorter. In Driscol, she’d stared back over her shoulder and wondered after the man who Billie had saved; here, in Caulkenny, she was buzzing with tremendous anticipation. Finally, she felt like she was close to success. Their last stop, Dabokva, would be visible in a few days, and the thing she’d been chasing since the beginning would be within her reach. Finally, she felt like this venture had been worth the effort—finally, it felt like she was getting somewhere.

Irene approached her side, and waited for the nod of Emily’s acknowledgement before speaking, “You seem pleased, Empress.”

Irene’s voice sent a frisson of guilt through her, but she replied without showing it. “I am.”

“I’m glad. You seemed to enjoy our time in Morley.” She paused for a long moment. “I would like to know if I should be concerned for your safety in Tyvia.”

Emily blinked slowly before casting a sidelong glance at her. Irene stood with her typical stiff posture and was refusing to meet her gaze, staring instead across the water. When Emily said nothing, Irene cleared her throat and added, “I would like to apologise to you. Not long after our departure from Dunwall, I aired suspicions that your intentions for this journey may not have been what they were on paper. Having nearly completed the tour, I believe I have come to learn that this suspicion was unjustified.”

“Irene.” Emily sighed, shaking her head, “You’ve already seen it justified.” She’d had never known someone with such a precise knack for being both correct and incorrect at the same time.

Irene shook her head once. “I respectfully disagree. What I saw in Morley was our Empress extending her hand to an island that, until a few years ago, was prepared to leave the Empire by force if necessary. As we’ve travelled, more people have come to love you as they should.” Irene hesitated, then spread one hand open. “I am not a politician, and I do not claim to know my history any better than anyone else. But if all my Empress’s efforts were spent mollifying Morley, I will think it valuable. I do not look forward to another revolution.”

Delilah’s laughter stung in the back of her ears, and Emily chuckled. “Me neither.”

Irene waited a moment before lowering her voice; it was barely audible above the sea slapping against the bow. “Will you please keep me advised of any unscheduled additions to your agenda?”

Emily smiled at her and said, “Of course I will, Irene.”

 

Gathering information somehow felt harder without Wyman by her side. She kept finding herself distracted, listening to what the Tyvians around her were saying more than she had listened to Kenwyn in Driscol, or indeed to Armando in Karnaca. She’d known where she stood with Armando; she’d quickly gleaned where she stood with Kenwyn. But between the Tyvians who passed for nobility and the poorer folk who’d petitioned for the right to see the Empress of the Isles, she found herself more fascinated with her people than she had before.

In the evenings, she donned her disguise and wove through the harbour, slipping in and out of taverns with an ear out for the words ‘Knife of Dunwall’. One night, she stole away the harbourmaster’s log and pored over it in the light of the moon. The log confirmed the fear she’d pushed away into the back of her mind: it had been many months since the Dreadful Wale had docked here.

Emily sat back, fingers clenched around the peeled cover of the book. Every time she’d reached a harbour, she’d told herself that the next one would have an answer, a clue; every time she’d reached a harbour, she’d told herself she was getting closer. But this last entry proved to her that she’d been deceiving herself all along; they could be over halfway to the Pandyssian continent by now. As quickly as the fire had erupted in her after the headway made in Alba, it guttered out. When she returned the book to its place on the harbourmaster’s desk, she told herself she was resigned to the failure of her initial mission.

_I am going to find Meagan Foster._

That’s what the line in her journal had read—it felt a long time ago. Perhaps, this whole time, she should have been looking for Billie Lurk.

She’d kept up the habit of writing entries throughout their travels. As she flipped through her journal, she marvelled at how many months had passed by so quickly. Rereading the accounts of her days—the detailed, thronging entries of each port punctuated by many pages of sparse travel reports—she realised how little of it she remembered. Her hand had penned records of long conferences, passing thoughts, potential legislative changes, the state of children and the poor, apparent wealth distribution… but the entries sounded like things that had happened to another person.

Maybe they had. She folded the journal shut again with a frown. Did it make her a weak Empress to give up now? Or was she weak because she’d spent almost a year of her life chasing after a person who no longer existed?

Well after the fireplace in her room had gone dark, she was still awake, lying in her bed and considering the cracks on the ceiling. She was on her third attempt at mentally cataloguing them when she heard a nervous, rattling knock on the door. Her guard was posted, but the knock clearly hadn’t been thumped in his heavy hand; Emily slid a knife up her sleeve and wrapped a robe around herself before opening the door a crack.

“Y-your Highness.” The girl bobbed nervously, bowing her head almost between her elbows and thrusting her hands before her. “I-I just, I was asked, this is for you.”

Emily raised her eyebrow at the guard on duty, who tightened his grip on the girl’s shoulder and moved his shoulders in a minor shrug. Emily took the folded and sealed slip of paper from the girl’s hands; the wax was pressed with the tip of a knife. Emily ran her thumb over the seal once before cracking it. The words were brief: ‘Come alone, to the third dock, in the hour before the sun rises.’

“Empress?” The guard grunted, as the girl squeaked in his grip. She wasn’t trying to escape, but she looked terribly small next to his bulk.

“She may go.” Emily said to him, and before she could open her mouth to thank the girl, she’d run away down the hallway, her face buried in her hands. Emily read the words over twice more before she spoke again, “Get me Irene, please.” Then she turned and shut the door to her room, worried that the guard would hear her heart beginning to thunder.

After all this, was it really going to be that easy? 

Irene arrived minutes later with her telltale rap on the door, and stood at attention after being allowed inside. Emily passed her the slip of paper and, after Irene read it, said simply, “You have my permission.”

“I find this quite suspicious.” Irene replied, frowning and turning the paper over to peer closely at the seal’s wax.

“I agree.”

Irene folded her arms behind her back, at the base of her spine. By now, her lips were going thin and white, and she looked like she was restraining herself from speaking further. When she did finally open her mouth again, her voice was the barest bit hoarse. “I do not like the idea of you accepting this invitation, Empress.”

“I know you don’t.” Emily frowned out the window into the night, wondering how much time she had before she would need to meet the message-sender or their proxy. “I am going to ask you to keep a secret for me, Irene. Are you able to do that?”

Irene balked. “I have always been told I am terrible at lying. I believe myself capable of discretion. Is that acceptable?”

“Fine.” Emily waved a hand and walked over to the fireplace, rousing the smouldering coals with a poker. She tossed the paper into the embers and turned to address Irene directly, “I’m going. I will be gone no more than a day, and I need that kept between us. Tell them I’m sick—tell them anything you like, but don’t let anyone know I’ve left. I will take every trick I have with me. Irene, some of them, you can’t even imagine.”

Irene lifted her chin, and Emily was surprised to hear a response that, in other mouths, may have constituted a retort. “I know my Empress conquered the witch Delilah. I can imagine a great deal.”

She hadn’t expected that; Emily smiled for a second, then settled back into a serious expression as she went on. “I will not be taken unawares, and I will return to you. By any means necessary, I will return, alive and well. Can you agree to this?”

“I can accept it.” Irene bowed her head, adding afterwards, in a low tone, “May I at least post a single guard to get a view of where you go?”

The chances that she would go completely unseen were minimal, and Irene’s discretion had proven sound before. None of Irene’s guards had ever hurt her or Wyman’s charades. Emily spread her hands and gave a firm nod, “Yes. Thank you.”

“Empress Kaldwin, I do not like this.”

“Nor do I, Irene.” Emily admitted gently. “Nor do I.”

 

Before dawn, Emily was wrapped in plain clothing and stumping down towards the docks with the rest of the fishermen, but her artillery was far from fishhooks and braided nets. She felt coiled tight as a spring, with more knives strapped to her person than she’d worn since resuming the throne. Something dark pulsed within her, willing her to panic and give in to fear—it reminded her of whale songs. She swallowed heavily and forced herself to remain calm.

A man by the third dock raised his arm in her direction as though they were old friends, so she raised an arm in return and strolled to his side. He wore a threadbare black hood and as she approached, she realised he smelled strongly of fish and salt. She settled into his boat, a small thing good for little more than running the coast, and realised there was water lapping at the soles of her boots.

He took hold of the oars and set to rowing without offering any conversation. By the time they’d rounded the lip of the harbour, his breathing was deep and rhythmic, telling her that he was hale underneath his rotted clothes. Their destination became clear some time after the sun rose, as they rowed into a narrow inlet with a rocky shore and creaking dock. Down the path, the house was little more than a decomposing wooden shack, pushed together by less-moldy wood. The door barely shut behind her. Only after they’d shuffled inside did the boatman remove his gloves and hood, before turning to bow at her. His voice was low and hoarse from lack of use.

“Your reputation precedes you, Empress.”

Emily remained upright, leaning back in a position to flee. Her heart hammered, and her hand burned. “How did you know I was here?”

Daud tapped the Mark on the back of his hand, dull and grey and uncovered. “I could tell.” He gave a thin smile that seemed mostly for his own benefit, and added, “We don’t talk much anymore, He and I.”

Despite the words, Emily could tell Daud still harboured some respect for the Outsider—she was surprised to feel like she could understand that. She pressed her lips together and didn’t speak. The dark feeling was rising again.

Daud settled into a chair and pulled a bucket of glistening oysters towards him, picking one up and driving his knife into it. “She’ll be back soon. She went to get supplies.”

“Why are you doing this?” Emily demanded, over the sound of the oyster cracking open. Her fingers were cold, and she felt like something inside her was ordering her to strike him. Fury was billowing up within her, a great maw desirous of revenge and death and blood.

Daud didn’t answer her, setting the oyster to one side and fishing up another.

“Why did you kill her?” Emily challenged instead, feeling her hands balling into fists. Suddenly, she was twelve years old again, and Corvo was a flash between her mother and the assassins, and Hiram Burrows had his dry, wrinkled hands clasped over her mouth. Daud was the man in that mask: Daud was the man doused with her mother’s blood. Daud was here, now, inoffensive and weak and passive, and she wasn’t ten anymore.

He looked at her: his face was lined with age, and his expression was resigned. She felt like she knew what he was going to say before he spoke. “Because that’s who I was.”

It wasn’t an answer. Bile burned up her throat and her hands were shaking. She didn’t want to understand this man.

“Would it change anything if I apologised?”

It wouldn’t, but shouldn’t he? Shouldn’t he at least give a fraction of a damn about what he’d done? Emily threw herself into the chair placed by the door, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. She hadn’t wanted this. Is this what she had asked for when she told Irene to trust her, and let her go? _Had_ she wanted this? She had no damn idea anymore.

“Emily… ?”

Startled, Emily looked up, and there she was. A pair of tattered canvas bags crossed over her shoulders, a patch over one eye, and one hand clutching at thick walking stick. Emily had never seen her so surprised.

Her instinct outstripped her mind, and she said, “Meagan.”

Instantly, she watched the expression of Billie’s face cloud over, and Billie pushed her way into the shack, displacing Daud’s bucket with one foot. Accusingly, she growled, “You did this.”

Daud remained silent, whittling his knife into another oyster shell.

Billie seemed unsurprised to receive no response, but it did nothing to mollify her. She stomped over to the old iron stove in the corner and flung the bags down on the floor nearby. Then, her back turned, she painstakingly opened the bags and removed each item, rising from a kneel to place them where they belonged. When Emily said nothing else, she simply said, “You can go now.”

“Tide’s out.” Daud grunted.

“She can _leave_.”

“I wanted to see to you.” Emily heard her own voice, and saw how it made Billie’s arm go still halfway through the motion of placing a tin of tea on the shelf. The shack became unbearably quiet. Emily swallowed and flexed open one hand, the one that she always kept gloved. Examining her own palm, she spoke softly, “I wanted to talk to you.”

Billie pushed the tea into place and sat back on her heels, pressing the back of her one hand into her forehead. Eventually, she looked over at Emily, quietly incredulous, “You came all this way just for that?”

Had she? Long ago, that had been her motivation. She thought back to the entries in her journal, unfamiliar but undeniably hers. Seeing Meagan had been the reason she set out on this journey—she had more reasons to appreciate it now. Meeting Billie’s gaze, she nodded once.

Billie sighed, snapping up to her full height and abandoning the half-full bag still on the floor. She crossed the shack again, pausing alongside Daud long enough to say, “You finish putting that away. We’ll be on the Wale.” Then, she beckoned for Emily to follow her.

They stepped outside the shack and down the dock to the questionable dinghy that Daud had used to bring Emily here in the first place. This time, though, Billie paddled them further north, away from the route back to Dabokva. She used one loose oar to accommodate her single hand, and swapped sides of the boat after a pair of strokes. She didn’t seem keen on speaking, but Emily found the silence too stifling. “Daud said the tide was out.”

“That’s on the way to the city. This little thing only likes high tide. But we’re not going far.”

And indeed, as they left the curl of the shack’s inlet, Emily could see the Dreadful Wale, anchored in the centre of a round bay. The boat was familiar but strange at the same time; it was heavily covered in tarpaulins and more rusted over than she remembered, looking like it had spent a long time in one place. But she remembered the sombre way it creaked in the waves, and the moment she hauled herself aboard, some part of her felt settled and at ease.

Billie, too, seemed more comfortable than she had in the shack. She stumped around the deck before leading on down the stairs, still saying nothing. Emily followed, marvelling at how stepping onto the ship brought back all the feelings from that time, with Delilah’s shadow looming over her and the sight of her stone-bound father haunting her every moment. Billie turned around, gazing into the galley before settling on the stool by the old table where they’d pored over the minutiae of Delilah’s plots. Eventually, Billie sighed and flexed her hand open, “So what did you want to say?”

Emily bit her lower lip. Her body was too full of tension to sit, so she faced away, down the belly of the ship towards the room where Anton Sokolov had stayed. She drew in a breath and exhaled it softly, then murmured, “I wanted to thank Meagan Foster for everything she did for me. I never got to, before.”

For a moment, the only sound was the water lapping against the hull. Then, Billie started to chuckle, the sound bubbling from her chest until she was laughing. When she managed to calm herself, she shook her head and stared at Emily, her expression unclear and unreadable. “That’s it? You haven’t changed a bit, Empress.”

That stirred something inside her belly, and she straightened up to full height. “I also wanted to ask why Billie Lurk helped kill my mother.” Billie’s expression flickered, but remained as mild as it had been before, giving away nothing. Emily lifted her chin higher. “I wanted to know why she never said sorry. I wanted to know why Meagan just ran off after all the things we went through together. I want to understand how Meagan felt about what Billie did, and how Billie feels about Meagan.”

“You never ask the easy questions, do you?” Billie sighed again, her one eye searching Emily’s face. She said nothing else.

Unrepentant, Emily retorted, “Nothing’s ever easy for an Empress.”

Billie gave a sharp bark of laughter, bitter and black. “Nothing? I’ll bet it’s real hard to deal with people falling over themselves to make you happy every day.”

“What’s hard to deal with,” Emily felt her voice rising and her face going hot, but did nothing to hold herself back, “Is people thinking that’s all there is to being a ruler. Wondering if those people falling over themselves are doing it to cover up the fact that they’re planning to poison you isn’t easy. Being responsible for every single person you see every single day isn’t easy—being responsible for every single person in an empire isn’t _easy_. Having your mother murdered because one of her advisors didn’t approve of her policies, and trailing after the gilded footsteps of a martyr, and never getting do anything for _yourself_ isn’t damn easy.”

Billie stared, silent.

“Being a title instead of a person isn’t easy.” Emily finally finished, breaking the ringing silence. She felt exhausted, her shoulders slumped and her hand aching. She wrapped her bare hand around the covered one and squeezed it; the motion did nothing to alleviate the burning sensation, but she felt better anyway. She hesitated before speaking again, her voice quiet. “For now, could we just be Emily and Meagan? All I want is to talk.” This time Emily sighed; Billie’s eye was fixed on her, but her expression hadn’t changed. Although it was hard to say, Emily made the admission. “You understood things in a way no one else around me could. You were a good friend to me when I really needed one.”

“Emily.” Billie finally said, her voice low and even, “Do you ever dream of eyes darker than the ocean on a cloudy night?”

Emily’s lips twisted into a smile, light and fine. “Yes, I do.”

 

It was at once a long day and one too short to tolerate. They talked themselves hoarse, laughing across the sea and arguing about the weight of the Outsider’s influence. Billie told Emily about being an alcoholic’s child and then a street urchin, then of what Deirdre had meant and how Deirdre had died, then of training under Daud. He’d been the only positive influence in her life, she said, teaching her to wield herself like a weapon, with confidence in her sharpness and a trust in her momentum. She said, more than once, that Emily couldn’t understand how hard it had been, and how much of it made Billie who she was.

Emily countered with tales of how rarely she got to be _Emily_ as a child; how even though people referred to her by name, they meant ‘Jessamine’s daughter’ or ‘the future Empress’; how when her mother was murdered she lost the only parent she’d been allowed to have _and_ the parent who’d been relegated to the fringe of her life; how, at ten years old, she’d been made powerless and propped upon a pedestal to further traitorous ambition. She talked about how difficult it was to wear two different lives on her shoulders at every moment of every day.

They talked themselves hoarse. At some point, once the stars were certainly winking in the sky, Billie stumped into the galley and returned with two tins of jellied eels, which she referred to as ‘emergency rations’. Emily hadn’t eaten any since the last time she’d been on the Wale, and it tasted just as horrible as she remembered. That was comforting, somehow.

Forks set aside, they kept talking, until Billie said it was too deep into the middle of the night, and if she knew anything about Empresses, it was that they couldn’t be lost at sea for very long. Standing by the dinghy, she extended her one hand to help Emily’s descent, her words low. “If it’s all the same to you, Empress, I’d like to take you back to the rest of your people now.”

In return, Emily stepped down into the boat and embraced her tightly, saying nothing. Behind her, dwindling as they rowed away, she imagined she could see silhouettes of Emily Kaldwin and Meagan Foster, laughing like they weren’t an Empress and an assassin.


End file.
